[ A feeling of doubting crosses Alan's mind then. No, not just doubt. Self-doubt. Doubting himself. Questioning his actions, his decisions. It seems that his ability to be confident in himself comes and goes with the waves. The tide is out now, and Alan's confidence is going out with it. But the one person who can bring it back in, tide or no tide, is right here with him. A part of him feels as though he shouldn't be relying as heavily upon her, but- she's his inspiration. His reason to keep going.
Even when everything seems lost, he just looks at her or thinks about her and feels his drive and determination return. Without her, he's just blindly trying to make his way through the darkness. With her, she's guiding him by the hand and doing what she can to show him the way. ]
It wouldn't be such a mess if I were different. Better. If I hadn't left the proverbial window open, letting him in. [ It's my fault! He got out. Scratch, with my face!
If he'd been more vigilant, if he'd been more careful, maybe Return wouldn't have ever been written. But spending time thinking about "maybes" won't get him anywhere. It won't help him fix the story. ]
I know you're right, but- What would this all look like if I wasn't a writer? Would it be better or worse? [ It's ultimately a pointless thought, but he wonders how things would be if he was a photographer like Alice or an artist drawing pictures. Not a filmmaker or a poet, because that's just asking for trouble. Isn't it? ]
Maybe if I had been something different, the collateral damage wouldn't be so great.
[ For just a second, a hint of the strain that Alan's had to shoulder as part of the process of trying to fix the story shows in his eyes. Stress lines form on his forehead as he sees pages from the manuscript spread out on a board or other flat surface. Arrows drawn between words and ideas go in all directions. Statements with question marks at the end of them are scrawled all over the board. Some words are scrawled out. Scratched out. The image of the board shifts and question marks written in Alan's hand cover the entirety of the surface.
What the hell? I really am losing it.
But as before, Jesse's movement catches his attention and pulls him out of the maze of his mind. She's pushed herself up with one arm, leaning over him. God, she's beautiful. ]
I just- I don't know how to explain it, but visions... images... things have reached me there before, sinking down to the bottom of- [ Of what? The lake? The ocean? What is it? Stop spiraling, Alan. Keep it together. ]
Why didn't I get a vision of that? I know I can't control what visions reach me, but you'd think something like that would manage to get through. Not that I could do anything about it, but- but maybe I could have. I- [ He's spinning out again, and he feels his desperation rising. He needs to make it stop. makeitstopmakeitstop- I just want to go home.
He startles when Jesse's forehead presses against his, but that startle response is enough to send the waves receding from him again. They're not going to drag him away this time. He draws a shaky breath, willing himself to calm back down again as he answers her. ]
You're crazy? If you're crazy, then I'm completely insane. I know, we've talked about this before. [ Haven't we? ] I'm not running. I'm listening. [ I'm still here. ]
Yeah. Yeah, there is. It just feels like the darkness is winning. But it hasn't won yet. Not yet. We're still-
[ He cuts himself off, because he's rambling and he knows it. She doesn't need to hear more of his crazy rambles. And he would rather listen to her than hear himself anyway.
His eyes lock on hers, because he senses that there is a point to all this: a point she's trying to drive home into his head, a head that's more spacey than it should be. Than it has any right to be. Pay attention. Wake up.
She's biting her lip, and he thinks he sees nervousness in her eyes. Or maybe that's just his own constantly nervous, panicked mind projecting things onto her.
But then it comes, and it takes Alan's breath away. He forgets to breathe for a second, then five seconds, then ten...
I wanted to be with the man I love again.
He's frozen beside her, not breathing, not doing anything but feeling something welling up inside him: something he hasn't felt in who knows how long. Surprise? Wonder? Love? Shock? All of the above?
I'm the man she loves? I wanted to tell her that I love her, but I never expected to hear it from her, even after the way we found each other in the story. I don't know why, but I didn't think she'd ever say it.
Alan's free hand that isn't holding hers slides to cover his face. His breath hitches again just as shakily as before, and he feels something sliding down his face and soaking into his beard. Several somethings that he tries to hide behind his hand, hoping she doesn't see. Hoping she doesn't notice how her words have rocked him, touched something inside him that he wasn't prepared to feel. ]
no subject
Even when everything seems lost, he just looks at her or thinks about her and feels his drive and determination return. Without her, he's just blindly trying to make his way through the darkness. With her, she's guiding him by the hand and doing what she can to show him the way. ]
It wouldn't be such a mess if I were different. Better. If I hadn't left the proverbial window open, letting him in. [ It's my fault! He got out. Scratch, with my face!
If he'd been more vigilant, if he'd been more careful, maybe Return wouldn't have ever been written. But spending time thinking about "maybes" won't get him anywhere. It won't help him fix the story. ]
I know you're right, but- What would this all look like if I wasn't a writer? Would it be better or worse? [ It's ultimately a pointless thought, but he wonders how things would be if he was a photographer like Alice or an artist drawing pictures. Not a filmmaker or a poet, because that's just asking for trouble. Isn't it? ]
Maybe if I had been something different, the collateral damage wouldn't be so great.
[ For just a second, a hint of the strain that Alan's had to shoulder as part of the process of trying to fix the story shows in his eyes. Stress lines form on his forehead as he sees pages from the manuscript spread out on a board or other flat surface. Arrows drawn between words and ideas go in all directions. Statements with question marks at the end of them are scrawled all over the board. Some words are scrawled out. Scratched out. The image of the board shifts and question marks written in Alan's hand cover the entirety of the surface.
What the hell? I really am losing it.
But as before, Jesse's movement catches his attention and pulls him out of the maze of his mind. She's pushed herself up with one arm, leaning over him. God, she's beautiful. ]
I just- I don't know how to explain it, but visions... images... things have reached me there before, sinking down to the bottom of- [ Of what? The lake? The ocean? What is it? Stop spiraling, Alan. Keep it together. ]
Why didn't I get a vision of that? I know I can't control what visions reach me, but you'd think something like that would manage to get through. Not that I could do anything about it, but- but maybe I could have. I- [ He's spinning out again, and he feels his desperation rising. He needs to make it stop. makeitstopmakeitstop- I just want to go home.
He startles when Jesse's forehead presses against his, but that startle response is enough to send the waves receding from him again. They're not going to drag him away this time. He draws a shaky breath, willing himself to calm back down again as he answers her. ]
You're crazy? If you're crazy, then I'm completely insane. I know, we've talked about this before. [ Haven't we? ] I'm not running. I'm listening. [ I'm still here. ]
Yeah. Yeah, there is. It just feels like the darkness is winning. But it hasn't won yet. Not yet. We're still-
[ He cuts himself off, because he's rambling and he knows it. She doesn't need to hear more of his crazy rambles. And he would rather listen to her than hear himself anyway.
His eyes lock on hers, because he senses that there is a point to all this: a point she's trying to drive home into his head, a head that's more spacey than it should be. Than it has any right to be. Pay attention. Wake up.
She's biting her lip, and he thinks he sees nervousness in her eyes. Or maybe that's just his own constantly nervous, panicked mind projecting things onto her.
But then it comes, and it takes Alan's breath away. He forgets to breathe for a second, then five seconds, then ten...
I wanted to be with the man I love again.
He's frozen beside her, not breathing, not doing anything but feeling something welling up inside him: something he hasn't felt in who knows how long. Surprise? Wonder? Love? Shock? All of the above?
I'm the man she loves? I wanted to tell her that I love her, but I never expected to hear it from her, even after the way we found each other in the story. I don't know why, but I didn't think she'd ever say it.
Alan's free hand that isn't holding hers slides to cover his face. His breath hitches again just as shakily as before, and he feels something sliding down his face and soaking into his beard. Several somethings that he tries to hide behind his hand, hoping she doesn't see. Hoping she doesn't notice how her words have rocked him, touched something inside him that he wasn't prepared to feel. ]